I wrote this for a Secret Santa event. The moment I saw 'Shrek AU' on the list of desired prompts, I formed this ridiculous idea and well, I hope that you like it.
So, Felix has a bit of a superiority complex.
He likes to think that it's about the swordplay and keeping his skills sharp, but the more that he rescues dead and dying villages from the evil clutches of others— Well, it's a satisfying feeling that settles deep into his gut.
And the pay is decent as well.
Felix carves a name for himself into the hearts of Fódlan locals over time. He's sought out for the express purpose of ridding the dark and dank, and saving people. It's a good life, truly. Better than noble vows and courtly life that leaves no wiggle-room.
Here, as a mercenary, he can carve his own path. And so, Felix relishes in it.
Remire is different. Remire is a village deep in the marsh, surrounded by all sorts of nasty shit. An evil witch has held this place under her thumb for decades and Felix is hired to handle it. The pay is pathetic, but at this point, it isn't about the pay anymore, it's a matter of pride.
Felix might very well lose this one.
The witch is good. She's held on, clinging to her life with insufferable absurdity to the point of grudging respect. She's tired though, her shoulders sagging and her sea-foam hair hanging in limp strings around her face. She must fancy herself a Queen, considering the headdress that adorns her forehead. It's now half-broken, courtesy of Felix's sword.
"You won't win," he spits at her.
The witch chuckles madly, her eyes alight with power and insanity. "Oh, little sword boy, you truly think that you stand a chance?"
Felix does, even if he's at a disadvantage. There's a deep cut in his leg that bleeds freely, and he's woozy enough that he sways on his feet. But his biggest flaw is his determination: Felix will go down fighting until the bitter end. Even if the end is death.
"There's something you haven't considered," he says to her, resetting his stance and holding his sword aloft before him.
"Oh?" The witch does the same, energy crackling around her fingertips as she readies herself. "And what is that?"
Felix smirks. "I have nothing left to lose."
He waits for her to come to him, making the first move. She strikes out with impressive speed, bolts of lightning streaking past his cheek. But she miscalculates and Felix sees an opening. He sweeps low, bent at the knees and pushes himself.
His sword buries directly in her gut, and she coughs. Felix watches as she stills, her fingers wrapping around the blade as though she can't believe it. And then she laughs bitterly.
"These people— they gave up everything they had to be rid of you."
"Oh, you sweet, winter child. So young and so stupid." The witch's grip shifts as she sweeps her fingers through the blood that drips from her gut. Felix's gaze narrows as he watches her fingers glow and her mouth move—
Blood magic, he realizes far too late. He can't dodge before the wave of power smacks into him. He's knocked right to the ground like a limp doll.
"You might have killed me but let it be known that I've gotten the last word in. An ornery little curse for such an ornery creature. I wish you luck in figuring it out." And then she laughs again, high-pitched and foul as she gargles around blood. The witch melts away as she dies, leaving nothing but ash and smoke.
And Felix feels wrong. The earth is upside down and his joints creak and crack. There is pain as everything shifts, and he screams in agony.
Then, the world grows black.
#
When Felix wakes, the world seems larger. His body feels wrong. He suddenly has instincts, and there's the distinct urge to lick his leg— What the absolute fuck?
His hands are furred paws. He can feel his ears twitch. Everything is varying shades of blue and gray, and the odd yellow and green.
Felix immediately rolls over and vomits.
"Oh, you poor thing," someone murmurs from above him. Warm, gentle hands pick him up and press him against soft cotton. Felix can't help but burrow into the feeling of it. Fingers stroke across the top of his head, soothing in the way that they scratch around his now too sensitive ears. "Shh, rest, rest. We'll talk later."
Right, talk later. Felix can do that. He slips right back under to the soft hum of a dewy voice.
When he wakes a while later, the woman who previously held him is staring at him instead. Gray eyes like the coming storm. Blonde hair cut into a bob around her cheeks. A full figure that would be the envy of most women and the want of most men.
"Mercedes," she greets as if she's reading his mind. She taps a finger to her chin. "I would venture to say that you're our distinguished mercenary, hm? It was odd that you disappeared but that isn't the case, is it?"
Felix's head hurts, and he cringes. "I'm—" His voice comes out as an awkward squawk, despite still sounding like himself.
"Oh, you can speak. She wasn't too cruel, then."
"Is she gone? Tell me that I ended the wench at least."
Mercedes's gaze softens. "Yes, she is gone. You've saved our village as promised. But—"
"I'm a cat," says Felix with a sigh.
Mercedes swallows whatever she was going to say, and instead, goes with, "Well, there are worse things to turn you into." Mercedes levels him with an amused gaze. "I've certainly seen it. A frog, or even the yellowed phlegm found in the nose of a child."
Felix cringes. Yes, certainly worse things. He doesn't dislike cats, but— "I'm a mercenary. What am I…" He sighs, rubbing his face tiredly against his forepaw. What a strange sensation. "I suppose that my career is over."
"Why would you say that?" Mercedes blinks at him, seemingly earnest in her question.
"I, er, I'm a cat."
"And what was it I said before? I've seen strange things, Sir Felix. A cat who is also a swordsman isn't as odd as you might think."
"Don't call me Sir," he says quietly. Felix's days of knighthood are long since in the past, and he'd rather not drag them back up. It's bad enough that the general public knows.
Mercedes smiles at him gently. "Give it time," she says, reaching out to press her fingers against the scruff of his neck. Felix can't deny it, the touch is wonderful, and he arches right into it. "But first, figure out how to walk on four legs."
Easier said than done.
#
Mercedes is a healer in her own right and she's the one who fixes his leg. It takes a day or so for Felix to gain his bearings and learn to work with four legs and a new center of gravity. Another week to learn how to be back on two feet, walking awkwardly on his hind legs.
Being a cat has advantages, but there isn't anything more that Felix wants than to be fixed, and as always, Mercedes seems to have keen advice.
"Curses always have a workaround, you know. It's just a matter of finding out what it is."
"I think she mentioned that," says Felix, "'I wish you luck in figuring it out'. I highly doubt she actually meant that."
Mercedes hums softly. "We witches understand there are limits to our work. Every curse has a countercurse, that is just the law of nature. I can sense the curse, you know. Her magic carries a very distinct feel, but—"
"I wouldn't expect you to know what to do."
She rubs at his neck. "It isn't that I wouldn't, I'm just young and not as experienced. There is certainly someone who would."
That catches Felix's attention. He regards her with yellowed, cat-like eyes. "Oh?"
Mercedes looks back at him with a sly grin. "East of here. There is a witch rumored to be as old as time. Seek her out and you might find an answer."
For the first time since he'd woken up as a cat, Felix feels a smidge of hope bloom in his chest. Something, at least, something. Better than nothing.
When it finally comes time for Felix to leave Remire, fully recovered and with a better understanding of what it's like to be a cat, he hesitates. He's enjoyed his time here and the comfortable calm of Mercedes's home. Her neck scritches and the warm milk and fish she would give him.
Felix doesn't have friends. Except for Mercedes. He'll miss her.
"I have something for you," she says as she sits on her porch. Felix stands beside her, carefully balanced on his hind legs. "Well, several things for you, actually."
First, she unfolds a swath of heavy wool, revealing a teal cape lined with sherpa. He watched her sew it with a steady hand. Felix assumed it was for a child, not for him, and he opens his mouth to reject it.
"None of that," she says as she clasps it around his neck, adjusting it like a mother would for a child. "I do things because I want to."
Felix doesn't, accepting the gift with a quiet sigh and a quick nod of his head. Mercedes then procures a small little bag.
"Your payment for the job."
He'd nearly forgotten about it. Mercedes told Remire that he hadn't fucked off and that he'd been cursed and was recovering at her home instead. The next day children had come to give him head pats and little treats.
Advantages to being a cat, he supposes.
"Right," he says, reaching out with a soft paw and taking it. It'd taken some practice, but he's learned how to articulate his toes well enough. He wonders if the gold will be of much use, however. Inns aren't a necessity anymore with his small size and ability to duck into old buildings and barns.
"And finally," says Mercedes, moving to unwrap a long length of cotton. She reveals a cat-sized scabbard that clearly houses a specially made sabre.
"Oh," says Felix, his voice choking just slightly. "Mercedes, I don't deserve—"
"Nonsense." She waves the thought away. "My brother made this years ago for a child in the village and the cost wasn't paid. It's only collecting dust in storage. It'll be nice to see it used for heroic purposes."
Felix waits before he answers. "You still think I'll be a mercenary? Even like this?"
"It isn't a matter of thinking, Felix, it's a matter of knowing."
He snorts at that, but takes the sabre anyway. He draws it and holds it out, testing it. Does a few jerking movements, still getting used to fencing in such a form. The balance is nice and it'll serve him well.
"Thank you," he says quietly as he sheathes it and buckles the belt around his waist.
"Look at you," says Mercedes, "Truly an esteemed man."
"An esteemed cat, you mean."
She nudges him gently. "Remember: Head east and over the mountain. Do you remember where it is said she lives?"
"Gronder Field," recites Felix, the directions all but seared into his mind by this point. And then he says, "I despise epic journeys, even in books. What is the point?"
"Isn't that the fun thing about fairytales? Despite the arduous journey, the ending is always worth it."
Felix has always hated fairytales.
#
Felix's journey east teaches him two important things about being a cat.
One: It takes forever to travel, mostly because Felix refuses to walk on all fours as much as possible. Perhaps it's bitter stubbornness to retain as much humanity that he can, but eventually, he gives in, straps the sword across his back and hoofs it on four paws instead of two.
Two: Money is useless and cats even more so. In a realm where you can think of just about any sort of magical creature, most humans are inherently distrustful of (what they perceive to be) a magical cat throwing around bags of gold.
Felix learns to market himself, though. On his adventure, he takes job after job. It's work, clawing his way back up from the bottom, but months into his bid, he's earned himself a new name that strikes terror into the hearts of ne're-do-wells: Puss-in-Boots.
He hates it, being reduced to nothing but a fantastical, sword-wielding cat in well-made boots, but grudgingly accepts it. Besides, his actions speak for themselves. The further he travels the more his name is known.
Now he enters a village and they offer him a room, free of charge. Or rather, free for the cost of handling a few pesky bandits. Felix always takes the offer, relishing in the way that his sabre feels in his paw, and losing himself in the familiar motions of fencing.
He's missed it, the rush of being a mercenary, and even if his reputation this time around is one of a hero instead of a respected sword-for-hire, he'll gladly shoulder the mantle if it means he gets to beat the bad guys up.
By the time that Felix arrives at Gronder Field, he's exhausted, stained in mud and more than worse-for-wear. Entirely over being a cat and itching to be human again, even if he's come to appreciate the weight of the child-sized sabre in his hand.
"Well, don't you look a little like a half-drowned rat." The Witch is short and child-like, with pointed ears and long, curled green hair. Felix isn't dumb enough to think she's a young girl, though. He barely has a magical bone in his body, but even he can feel the power that radiates off her.
"I've come to ask for help."
"I know. You're late."
The Witch's cottage is modest in its size, hunkered at the corner of the field. Strangely easy to find which speaks volumes about her power. She motions for Felix to follow her inside and he hesitates.
She eyes him with a narrowed gaze. "I'm a good witch, you know."
"Even good people can have dubious motives at times."
The Witch's smile curves into an amused smirk. "Cat, you have nothing of value to me, so you are safe."
Felix bristles in annoyance at the outright dismissal. He also follows her in.
The inside of the cottage is littered with books and dried herbs and flora. The hearth is lit with a warm fire, and she sets about a kettle of water for tea. When she motions to a chair, he sits.
"You know, you're the most stubborn of men," she says as she mixes leaves and flower petals into two cups.
"You don't know me."
"You don't know yourself, mortals never do."
Felix cocks his head to the side. What an interesting thing to say.
The Witch sighs, deeming the leaves done and leaning against the counter as she waits for the water to boil, her chin cradled and smooshed from where she rests it in her palm. "That's a nasty curse, though, I'll give you that."
"Which is why I want it gone."
The Witch taps her chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps a little humility would do you good, though, Mr. Meandering Swordsman."
Felix is more surprised by the fact that he isn't surprised she knows of his previous moniker.
"I've been humbled plenty, I assure you," he says, sounding more annoyed than he means to.
She regards him for a long moment, thinking, until the tea kettle whines. She removes it from the heat, pours out two cups of tea and then moves to sit next to him. "Luckily for you, I tend to pity mortals, especially those who are capable of true growth—"
"Hey."
"Do you want my help, or not?" She blinks at him innocently but Felix knows that there's power there. She's anything but.
Felix sighs, rubbing at his nose with a curled paw. "Yes," he hisses, almost like it hurts him to do so.
The Witch sips at her tea, her fingers wrapped about the dainty ceramic cup. "Drink," she says, nodding to his portion.
Felix does, surprised by the bitter taste of Almyran pine needles. He drains the cup quickly. The witch hums as she reaches out to pull it from his grasp, turning it as she reads the remaining leaves.
"Interesting," she murmurs, a smile spreading across her face.
"What?"
"Nothing." She places the cup back onto the table. "There are many ways to cure a curse. Yours was made with ancient magic."
He'd already figured that out. Rhea was a crafty one and the feeling of her magic was decidedly different than anything else he's felt before. "What do I have to do, then?"
"Two options," says the witch, running her finger along the edge of the cup idly. "There's the ever classic True Love. Contrived and lacking in originality, sure, but it's always been a solid method."
She pauses, leveling him with a quirked grin that Felix decides immediately that he doesn't like. "However, when it comes to you, I think that's an option that won't work. Who'd ever fall in love with such a prickly little thing?"
Rude, thinks Felix as he opens his mouth to retort, but the Witch holds up a finger to shush him.
"Which brings the second option to the table, one that you're far more suited for: A Great Act of Heroism. Good one, no?"
Felix blinks. Falling in love? Yeah, not really in the cards. Felix rather hates people. But heroically saving them? It's what he does for lunch.
"That, then," he says immediately.
"Yes, that's what I knew you'd say." The Witch sighs and stretches her arms above her head. "Far to the northwest, there is a Monastery."
"Surely you don't mean Garreg Mach," says Felix, dread already sinking into his gut. A dark and dead place that never survived the War. It's rumored that ghosts lurk there and terrorize anything that comes near.
"You don't strike me as the superstitious sort."
Felix isn't, but— "Death chills that place."
"Exactly." The Witch smiles thinly at him. "There's a prisoner there, right at the tippy-top of the highest tower. You should go rescue them."
Felix scoffs. "I have no time to rescue princesses."
"Then I suppose you'll be a cat until you do so, because your other option doesn't bode so well." Felix stays the rather nasty retort he wants to spit at her, which causes her to grin slyly. "Oh? Cat got your tongue? Come on, say it."
"You're a vile thing, aren't you?"
The Witch shrugs. "I'm only telling you the truth. You came for my help and here it is. Advice is only that— advice. Whether or not you listen to it is up to you."
She's right and he can't fault her for it. Still, something nags him. "Why hasn't this princess—"
"Did I say it was a princess?"
Felix blinks. "Why hasn't this person been rescued yet?"
"Oh you know, lots of reasons. It's a long and arduous journey. It's a place tainted by darkness and death. There might be a fire-breathing dragon—"
"Might be?"
The Witch sighs, as if she's the one who should be annoyed. She shouldn't be. "Alright, there is a Dragon, and a very old one at that. I think people are too scared." She looks at Felix once more, regarding him seriously. "You, though— You might be desperate enough to give it a try."
Felix is. Felix is so annoyingly desperate that he'd literally try anything— even falling in love if it meant ridding himself of this foul curse. And he tells her that.
The Witch believes him, her gaze softening the tiniest bit. "Resolve is always good. But first— before you go, share another cup with me. I do get lonely out here."
The Witch pours him another cup of tea and slides the cup to him. Almyran Pine Needles, his brother's favorite blend. It is, at the same time, both a wanted and unwanted memory, nostalgia hitting him at full force.
Felix indulges her.
#
Garreg Mach is a crumbling ruin that rises high into the sky, but otherwise, not as frightening as Felix expects it to be.
Maybe it's because he's a cat now. His reflexes are quicker, he can hear better and his sight is more suited for the dark. He can fall from great heights and land on all feet, limbs shocked but perfectly sound.
Humans are woefully disadvantaged when it comes to survival, he's realized over the last half-year. Felix is almost used to being a feline, which is perhaps the strangest thought he's had thus far.
Still, he yearns for his old life and bitter dark chocolate.
Learned the hard way that cats can't eat that.
"So," he murmurs, picking his way across broken staircases, "Upwards we go until we find the Princess." A pause. "It has to be a princess. Must be. Why else bother?"
Felix doesn't like princesses, least of all royalty, and he's certain to hate the entire second half of this probably doomed quest. The things one does to regain a semblance of normalcy.
Climbing winding hellscapes is easier as a cat, though. He's more nimble and gets tired less easily, able to jump from point to point, cutting his ascent time nearly in half.
And, sure enough, there's a dragon as promised, a huge and hulking lizard wrapped tightly around the top-most spire. Nestled just under its face is a tiny little window, lit-up orange by a fire, a tiny little beacon in the quickly falling night.
As a human, Felix would have been confident. As a cat, he still is because it's a defining feature of his crusty personality, but he also knows that he's woefully unprepared. A cat against a dragon— Felix isn't dumb enough to think that he has a chance of fighting it, so he thinks he might haggle with it instead.
Felix doesn't get the chance.
The Dragon notices his approach and blinks its eyes open. It shakes out its wings, joint creaking slightly as though it hasn't moved in ages, and then it unfurls itself from the building and drops to the parapet with a heavy thud.
It's much larger up close and Felix swallows down fear. Strange sensation. Still, Felix stands on his hind legs and draws his sword as though it'll actually do something.
"A cat," says the Dragon, his voice a low rumble, "In a cloak and with a sword. My, what a strange thing. Why are you here?"
"I've come to bargain," says Felix, trying to keep his voice steady.
"Bargain?" The Dragon blinks. "With a sword that I could use as a toothpick?" The dragon then laughs and Felix feels the stone of the walkway shiver underneath his paws. "I fear that I have no gold for you, kitten. Only scores of old books that I once wrote as a man. Pick one if you like and begone."
"I'm here for the Princess," says Felix instead, severe in his resolve.
The Dragon looks confused as it cocks his head to the side. "Er, Princess?"
"Are you so old that you're deaf?" Felix has the gall to scoff as he points to the window in the tower. "I've been sent on a heroic quest."
The Dragon seems rather dumbfounded. "You're here for the lout?"
The what now?
"Goddess, walk right in and take him. Actually, I beg for you to do it. Five years I've had to suffer through his incessant whining and cruel bids for conversation."
Felix stares at the Dragon as though he's grown a second head. Then he sheathes his sword and steps forward tentatively. "This… this isn't a joke?"
The Dragon snorts. "You would be doing me a vast favor. I only wish to live quietly here and write children's books, but I've been bound by a contract to watch over this boy's unbearable visage instead. Please, let me retire in peace."
"I will gladly take him off your hands, then," says Felix, and the Dragon steps to the side to let him pass without an ounce of issue. Felix shuffles awkwardly and then figures that he should bow neatly.
The Dragon huffs a laugh and dips his head low. "A word of caution," he says to Felix, warm breath puffing against his fur, "I would gag the man lest you become immediately annoyed." It's a good-natured joke, considering the Dragon's soft, resulting chuckle. Then the creature is off as he spreads his wings and jumps high into the sky.
"Gag the man," repeats Felix as he starts the climb up the tower. "Surely he can't be that bad."
When he reaches the top, the door isn't locked from the outside— only in. Felix turns the knob and steps into the room, only to stop dead.
What greets him inside isn't a man, but a fucking donkey.
#
The Dragon is right; the donkey is insufferable from the very first moment he opens his mouth.
"Wow, five years and someone's finally come to rescue me? Tell me, what is the name of my oh-so courageous savior?"
"Felix." He says it curtly and with an acidic tone. Maybe the ruder that he is the less the donkey will talk.
The donkey, though, pauses at his voice. "Felix," he murmurs, as though he's remembering something. A flicker of recognition seems to harken there, but whatever the donkey realizes is beyond the scope of Felix's knowledge.
"Look, I'll be blunt with you," starts Felix, "I've been cursed by a witch and I'm no longer a man, but a cat."
"Oh, fantastic. I'm cursed too," says the donkey. Felix waits for more but he doesn't elaborate.
"Right. So, I've been told that a Great Act of Heroism can break the curse, and so here I am." Felix pauses. "You know, the Dragon begged for me to steal you away."
The donkey looks offended, but not surprised. "Grumpy old thing, that lizard. Never wants to talk about anything, least of all pretty women. You know, there's nothing happier than to rest your cheek across a nice, warm bosom? Man, I miss that."
There's something familiar about his voice and demeanor. Felix is struck by the strangeness of it but nothing comes to mind. "Your name?" he asks next.
"I'm—" The donkey's mouth snaps right shut, preventing whatever he's about to say from leaving his lips. He sighs, clapping a hoof against the ground in annoyance. "It's been so long since I've met someone new that I forgot. I can't tell you that. Rules of the curse."
"And this curse is?"
"Unfortunate," is what the donkey says. And then nothing more. Eventually, he finishes with, "Obviously, I can't tell you that either."
"Donkey, then," says Felix, "I refuse to say 'Hey, you', for the rest of this journey."
All Donkey does is shrug nonchalantly.
#
Donkey turns out to not be a Prince, but rather, a man from Faerghus. Felix bristles the moment he learns the destination is the Blue Palace in Fhirdiad.
"So tell me," says Donkey, "How's court been?"
"What makes you think I would know that?" Felix is terse.
A servant, he thinks. Donkey's turned out to be nothing but a gossip, and less than a day together has truly tried Felix's wavering patience. He has no idea how he's going to survive this.
Humanity, he thinks, trying to remember what it's like to have two proper feet and not paw pads and claws. He misses his height, even if he isn't a tall man. Still taller than a cat.
"Ah, well, you just… have that kind of feel about you. High and mighty, stiff-necked and incredibly vain—"
"I am not vain."
"Right then. Stuffy, I meant."
Felix glares at him. "I am not stuffy either."
Donkey lets out a long-suffering sigh as they walk along. "That's it, then? No small talk? No sense of camaraderie? It's at least a month to the mountains, and who knows how long until the Capitol itself."
"Don't remind me." A pause. "And don't make me stab you."
"Ah, yes, your stick."
Felix huffs, not bothering with a response.
#
Donkey is better with people than Felix is. The Dragon made it seem as though he'd be impossible to travel with, but Donkey falls rather quiet and leaves Felix alone for the most of their journey.
Sure, there is an occasional and odd conversation, but Donkey has realized that Felix doesn't converse and that forcing him to do so will only end in his death.
So, they travel in companionable mostly-silence.
One night, weeks later, they are camped at the base of the Oghma Mountains.
Donkey asks, "Why do you walk on your hind legs?"
Felix sits against a log, watching their fire through his narrowly slit cat's eyes. "Because I missed it. I refuse to allow myself to forget the feel of a sword in my hand, all because I'm now a cat."
Donkey laughs. Seems like he can't help it. "That's an incredibly you thing to say, isn't it?" There's a pause. "At least I assume so. I barely know you."
"And we're better for that."
Donkey hums softly, tipping his snout back to watch the sky instead. "I gotta ask, though, who'd you piss off? That's a nasty curse."
"An ancient witch. She had a hold over Remire and I was hired to handle her. And, well, you can see how well that worked."
"So you are him, then. The Meandering Swordsman."
"I was, once upon a time." Felix snorts. "Now I'm nothing but Puss-in-Boots, which I rather hate because it sounds deceptively dirty." Felix expects Donkey to laugh because he's finally made a raunchy joke.
Donkey looks at him with a strangely wistful gaze. "Do you miss it? Your life as a mercenary?"
Felix's immediate answer is yes— but as he almost says it, it feels wrong. So he stays the word and thinks again. "I think… there is a part of me, yes. But I've learned that I like to help people without payment involved. Acts of chivalry have turned out to be better than the books describe."
"And so, the Great Act of Heroism."
"Well, no, that's intensely selfish."
Donkey laughs dryly.
"And what about you? Do you miss wherever you come from?"
"No." Donkey says the answer so quickly and fervently that it surprises Felix. At first, he'd thought Donkey a servant, but after their talks and the weeks spent together, he seems too learned for such a low position.
A minor nobleman, perhaps.
"I figured that you would miss your friends," says Felix.
Donkey is quiet for a long moment. "I didn't have any friends. Well, no, I had one. When I was young. Who knows where he fucked off to. Left me just like everyone else."
Felix looks at Donkey and is, for once, happy that he sees better in the dark now. Donkey is the kind of man that exudes insufferable ease, but it's at that moment that Felix realizes it's nothing but an act. Donkey is a master of manipulation, it seems. He'd wanted Felix to think of him one way, and Felix damn well did.
Now he doesn't.
"What will there be for you when we get back?"
Donkey thinks, sighing softly. "Nothing. But I guess that's better than being cooped up in a tower, you know?"
"No plans for a grand adventure to cure your curse? You seem like the type."
"Felix, I'm nothing but a fool," says Donkey.
They spend the rest of the night quietly, after that. But, the strangeness isn't very awkward at all. Instead, it's rather nice.
#
The mountains come and go, and when they find the ground once more, Felix is never happier to not see snow.
"Aren't you from Fraldarius? It's cold there!"
"Yes, well, the cold and snow are horrifically different when you're barefoot and covered in fur. Wet," he grouses, "So wet and cold. I thought I'd never dry out."
"You're wearing boots." Donkey doesn't sound impressed.
"Only on my hind legs."
Donkey laughs at that and they move on.
It's Spring, and therefore warm. Flowers bloom because it's lower altitude and the sun actually comes out. Felix, for one, is happy they won't have to spend their nights huddled next to each other for warmth.
"You smell like ass," he says, "Hard to fall asleep to."
"I am an ass, technically. And have you smelled yourself?" Donkey's snout wrinkles as he sticks his tongue out.
"At least I clean myself."
"Yes, well, how's that habit going to change once you're human again?"
Felix blinks, pondering this. He's never quite thought about that. It'll be strange to not groom himself with his tongue. Things will taste different, walking will be funny. He won't see in the dark well, or smell things the same way, or have that delightfully rough tongue that yanks at his fur.
It's shocking, the clarity of it all. Felix rather likes being a cat now that he's been one for nearly a year.
They stop for a quick lunch. Donkey falls dramatically to the ground, stretching out on his back for a nice rest. Nestles his snout into a bed of flowers to inhale deeply.
"Pathetically romantic, aren't you," says Felix in a lighthearted jab.
"At least I know what romance is. No doubt the closest you've come is reading about it in a book."
Felix rolls his eyes and draws his sword. Decides to spend the moments of rest sharpening his well-loved gift from Mercedes. He misses her and her kind words. Most of all, he misses being a sort-of pet.
Not that he'd ever utter it to a soul.
He looks at Donkey once more and finds himself to be startled. Donkey dozes quietly in a bed of soft grass, sunlight tumbling from the cloudless sky above. A donkey isn't handsome, but Donkey isn't an ugly thing. He has well-shaped features and a curling mane of auburn-red.
Felix will miss Donkey too, from his incessant chatter to his dumb poetry readings and shameless flirting with the women that they meet. He's a strange kind of comfort in such a deadly fairytale world.
Curses are cruel, and he hopes that Donkey will find a cure for his own because he doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve to be so lonesome, unable to share his name or story with a single soul. He doesn't deserve to—
Felix realizes in horror that he's fallen in love with the bastard.
#
Felix panics.
Okay, maybe panics is a strong word, but he doesn't like the way that his heart tightens at the mere thought of it. Felix hates people, it's why being a cat suits him. As a cat, he doesn't have to deal with them much, and most leave him be.
It's been perfect, really. Felix was just about to decide that perhaps he doesn't want to break the curse.
But loving Donkey is a complicated matter because if he does and it was meant to be, then that breaks the curse, right? The idea plagues Felix more and more as they travel west.
"Just deal with it," he murmurs to himself, "Until you get to Fhirdiad."
And when that doesn't work: "Donkey's an idiot. That makes you an absolute moron for loving him."
This must be a curse too, because the more they travel the more they ease into friendship. Donkey talks more, moments of genuine conversation and the sharing of thoughts and memories.
He's strangely poignant and oh-so lonesome, and all Felix wants to do is stick to his side and not leave.
Ridiculous. Ridiculous.
And yet, when he looks at Donkey and those carefree, dumb expressions on his face, Felix can't help the way that his heart warms.
Maybe the stories are true.
For every cat, there is just one person. Or in his case, a donkey.
That day, Donkey asks him an unusual question under the cover of night.
"Say, Felix— Did you leave behind anyone special when you were turned into a cat?"
"No," he says firmly.
"No one? Shame. You're a catch."
Felix assumes that Donkey is joking, of course. He must be. Felix is a cat, there's nothing catching about his mangey and mildly flea-bitten mug.
"There was someone once," he finds himself saying. Donkey pauses, turning to listen. Felix doesn't share stories, he only listens to whatever Donkey shares. But he's feeling nostalgic because apparently, he's a romantic now.
"An old friend and sort of a bastard."
"A man?" Donkey says it with surprise, not judgment.
Felix has never been picky. "There are times that I wonder what would have happened if I said something. Perhaps we would have worked, but I missed my opportunity."
"What, he left?"
"No, I did." Donkey is quiet and Felix stares at the stars in the sky. "Leaving is easier, you know, than feeling things. There were too many memories, too many ghosts that haunted those old halls. So I left."
"And are you happier?" Donkey doesn't look at him when he asks.
Felix sighs. "I thought I was. Rose-tinted glasses, which sounds like something he'd say."
"Didn't peg you as a romantic."
Felix wasn't until now. Love is dumb like that.
#
It comes to a head late one night by the fire of their camp.
Donkey is out cold beside him, snoring, a cute sound that keeps Felix up at night. Renders him exhausted, but at least one of them is sleeping. It wasn't that way at the beginning of this absurd adventure.
Felix thinks that he wants to remain a cat.
He's used to it by now, mostly. He likes how nimble he is, and the way that the ground squishes under his paws. How he can sneak into the underbrush and how easy it is to track down food in a pinch when he's out or short on gold.
Never has to pay for lodging; barns are nice and warm, even if straw tickles his nose.
Donkey is an unexpected complication.
While Felix promised him a proper escort, Donkey gets nothing out of this aside from a companion the entire way home. And, if Felix wishes to remain a cat, his Great Act of Heroism isn't needed anymore.
Which makes falling in love like a dagger to the heart, more than a sappy, lovesick feeling. If he loves Donkey, then he might turn back.
Felix is resolved. Perhaps this curse is for the best and he deserves to remain a cat. Weirdly apt and on point for him. The idea of joking about nine lives comes as unexpected humor.
He looks at Donkey again and his heart warms. But nothing else happens.
"True Love," he murmurs. The Witch said that it was True Love that breaks a curse, and that's different than a minor attachment.
Felix's bid for the truest of affections was lost the moment he stormed out of those palace doors with nothing but an old bag and his brother's sword on his hip. Didn't look back once, even though he wanted to.
Donkey is a nice distraction, a realization that maybe one day he can move on. But Felix knows better. He isn't cut out for this, not one bit. "Sylvain," he murmurs softly, and it's like his soul clenches painfully.
Felix thinks about him more than he'd like, Sylvain. Friends since they could walk and rivals in their teenaged years. Nearly lovers into their young adulthood with stolen kisses in the halls and wandering hands.
They'd spent their entire lives within the Blue Palace, under the thumb of Adrestian rule.
His luck wasn't ever good and Sylvain never chose him, so he left. And shortly after, the Palace held their coup against the Empress and they lost, and Felix never heard from him again. Ingrid married off for thinly-veiled peace. Dimitri roamed empty palace halls as a hideous Ogre-King.
And Sylvain disappeared. Even if they eventually won the throne back, they were cursed, every single one of them.
Felix sighs. Were he Sylvain, he'd compose a sonnet and read it by moonlight, or something similarly drastic. It'd be dumb. Felix would love it, though he'd pretend not to.
They were always opposites.
So, Felix leaves. He runs away as he did all those years ago. Packs his bag, pulls on his boots, and straps that beloved gift from Mercedes around the swell of his furry little hips. He stands on his hind legs, watching Donkey awkwardly before he shoves off.
He's always been a yellow-bellied coward.
#
Felix heads north and tries to forget.
He doesn't get very far when he hears them— two Adrestian soldiers deeper into Faerghus than they should be. Dimitri sits on the throne once again, even as ogre-like as he is, so what are they doing here?
"You didn't hear? He's been spotted."
"The Gautier boy? He's been missing for a half-year?"
Felix's ears twitch at that, his head snapping towards them. Bless his ability to hide and hear incredibly well. Choosing to stay a cat was the right decision.
"Lord Hubert is annoyed that he's slipped from his grasp. Something about how dealing with dragons always comes back to bite him."
Felix's eyes narrow at that— Hubert? The Adrestian royal sorcerer? A gaunt man that Felix and Sylvain used to terrorize in the Palace hallways. He rarely left the Empress's side when they were young and dumb, and always looked a little like a ghost.
"Lord Hubert would like the Gautier boy's head on a pike, if only for the satisfaction of it."
"Wouldn't that incite another war? I thought the Lordling was a close friend with King Dimitri."
"Yes, well, you know how our Lord is—"
The second soldier makes a gagging sound. "Terrifying, truly." He pauses. "You're sure, though?"
"Heard it from the guard detail myself. They delivered the monthly supplies, like always, and he wasn't there. The tower was entirely empty!"
Dragon, thinks Felix as his eyes narrow. He flattens himself against the ground and shuffles closer, staying hidden underneath the bush. And a tower?
The other soldier hums at that. "I wonder though— how far could he get? He's a donkey for Goddess's sake. What use is he?"
Felix's blood runs cold. His fur stands on end and his claws extend, digging straight into the earth, gripping into the mud. A donkey, they'd said, he's a donkey. A dragon and a tower. A pompous git who loves to hear himself talk with a voice that'd been so familiar to Felix. Strangely romantic at times, with occasionally powerful wisdom.
Insufferable, because one can't help but like him as time wears on. Or love him, even. Even years after the fact, a bitter and cruel feeling that refuses to budge from the heart. It haunts Felix on his loneliest of days.
"You'll always be an ass, won't you boy? Perhaps one day you'll get your due," Hubert once said to them. Sylvain was about fourteen and dumped an entire flour bag all over his dark and dreary visage, painting him white. Hubert shook with visible anger, and Felix dragged Sylvain off by the ear before more damage could be done.
"He's been spotted near Arianrhod, though. Consistently. Traveling with a cat for a while— one that wore a cloak and a sword!"
"See, that sounds ridiculous."
"More so than a man-turned-donkey locked in a tower?"
"Well, when put like that— but isn't there a famous hero? A Puss-in-Boots, or something—"
Felix moves.
"Fuck," he hisses, pulling back from the brush and adjusting his sword to lay across his back. There isn't much time. If Sylvain has been spotted consistently over the last week, then there isn't a doubt that a company has been sent after him.
Felix runs on all paws in the direction from whence he came. And, for the first time in years, he prays to Seiros that he isn't too late.
#
Felix is late.
Felix is spectacularly late, coming across a quiet little village that's been all but leveled by powerful dark magic. Just his fucking luck, of course. Fairytales always work like that, don't they?
In the middle of the wreckage is Sylvain, bleeding from his snout and wheezing with a wet rasp. He's on his forelegs, clearly injured.
And opposite him is Hubert, cloaked in dark matter, a ball of swirling black hovering over his gloved fingertips.
"Sylvain!" yells Felix, jumping between the two of them without a thought.
Hubert pauses, his head cocked to the side. Felix must look ridiculous; he's a cat on his hind legs, wearing a tattered cloak and well-worn leather boots. A sword is strapped to his side and he draws it neatly.
Sylvain chuckles and then groans. "You've always had the worst fucking timing, haven't you?"
"Imbecile," hisses Felix, his gaze sliding towards him, "You're the one who should've said something."
"Did you forget? I couldn't. Cursed, remember?"
"A cat," says Hubert, drawing their attention back to him. "The little Lordling escapes and finds company with a cat. What will you do, prick me with that tiny little stick?"
Sylvain must see how he tenses, how his hackles raise, because he shouts, "Felix, don't—"
Hubert blinks. Hubert thinks. Then his mouth curves into a wide and cruel smile as he realizes. "The Fraldarius boy? My, I should have realized. You look just like your brother despite the fur—"
"Don't talk about him!"
Hubert gives him a smug smirk. "Your curse is old. Ancient and terrifying magic. Tell me boy, just who was it that you angered?"
"An old witch who was about as crusty as you."
Hubert's smirk falters slightly at that. "Refreshing to see that being a cat hasn't changed you one bit. Tell me, boy, are you still as yellow-bellied as that brother of yours?"
Felix launches, his sword held aloft, running across the ground on steady feline feet. Hubert dodges, but only just barely, twisting out of his reach. Felix turns quickly, his sword arcing through the air.
Metal meets dark magic, and Hubert blasts him away.
Felix lands on his feet, thankful for his cat-like senses. His whiskers twitch, itching from the feel of the magic in the air, but he sets his stance, his boots digging into the earth. He takes hold of his sword once more for another go.
"Persistent, aren't you? Just like the meddling brother of yours."
"He was a knight who did his job!" Felix's voice cracks when he yells it.
"Did he?" Hubert breathes heavily, clearly not used to the drain of a proper battle. Or maybe Sylvain put up a good fight. "I remember something different. A wet-eyed boy, tears streaming down his face as he begged for me to spare him—"
Felix strikes again, fueled entirely by spite. "Liar," he snaps, slicing at Hubert's side with his sabre. The sword sinks into his clothing, but misses anything vital.
"Too slow, despite being so light on your feet," says Hubert, reaching out to grab Felix by the scruff. He's lifted off the ground effortlessly, dangling from Hubert's grasp. His sword clatters to the ground.
"You know, I thought the donkey bit was a fitting end for our little Lordling over there, but there's something immensely satisfying about seeing how far you've fallen as well. The two of you were always insufferablye little cretins, back when—"
Hubert chokes on his next words. He looks down to see Felix's sabre sticking right through his gut. Felix's gaze turns to see Sylvain, the hilt in his mouth as he grinds it into Hubert's guts further.
Felix is dropped as Hubert falls to the ground. Felix attacks, claws out as he attaches himself to Hubert's face viciously. There isn't much left when he's done, aside from the deep-seated satisfaction that settles in his belly.
And then things shift. Felix feels the curls of ancient magic pulling deep at his core. It's the same feeling as when he was cursed, but this time it feels like everything is righting itself. He's pulled and pushed, stretching thin and laid flat.
And then he's a man again, entirely naked and covered in mud. His fingers and hands are stained red, blood drying underneath his fingertips. He chokes out a laugh in disbelief, staring at them— proper, human fingers.
Goddess, he feels weird.
He turns to find Sylvain sprawled across the ground again, human as well, face pressed into the wet mud of the ground. And then he sees the gaping wound in his side, far too close to a lung to be anything but fatal.
"You idiot," he murmurs, leaning over him, pressing a hand against Sylvain, putting as much pressure as he can.
Sylvain groans underneath him. "Yeah, always an idiot. Keep talking dirty to me, I always loved that."
Felix hates this and that's exactly what he says next. "This wasn't— When we met again, it was supposed to be different. You promised me that we'd—"
Sylvain sighs softly with a wet and rattling breath. "Goddess, I never stopped loving you."
Felix's heart practically stops, his fingers digging into Sylvain's skin. "No, no—"
Time stops. The world disappears. The next thing that Felix knows is there's only him and Sylvain in a darkened room with a throne, and the Witch who lives at the edge of Gronder Field. She regards him with a kind smile, her finger pressed to her lips in amusement.
"Well, this is quite the predicament."
"Save him," says Felix. Pleads and begs for it. It's the only thing that he can think of at the moment, the only thing that he cares about. "I don't care about the cost, or whatever you might curse me with, but save him."
"Oh, stop being so dramatic. I'm not going to curse you." The Witch rolls her eyes and steps forward, kneeling beside him.
"He's—"
"Only mostly dead. That's good at least. You were late, just like you always are." She lifts a hand that swirls in green, pressing it to Sylvain's side. Felix watches as the skin knits back together, leaving only a long and thin scar. She smiles at her handy work. "There, something to remember this moment by.
Felix finds that he can't even find words. The Witch looks at him. "What, cat got your tongue?"
"You aren't a witch," he murmurs, "Even the best of witches can't—"
"Witches can do all sorts of things. But no, I'm not a witch. Mortals were the first to call me that and it's always stuck." She thumbs at her chin. "Breaking the curse though— that was entirely you."
"But— how—"
The Witch regards him with mirth, her eyes practically twinkling. "Haven't you yet realized? It was True Love that I saw in your cup that day when I read those tea leaves, not some dumb and heroic act."
Before Felix can reply, the room melts away, and they're back in the village— blessedly clothed. Simple linens and trousers, but no longer exposed to the elements. Sylvain looks pale, but otherwise alright. Felix's hands immediately find his face.
"You dolt," he says quietly, smoothing his thumbs over the high arches of his cheekbones. Sylvain looks largely the same, only older and a little more handsome. His hair is longer and unruly, curling around his ears. A strong jawline and dangerously keen neck.
Felix drags a hand down his front to settle against Sylvain's chest. His heart beats steadily, no trace of being mostly dead as just moments before.
"Perhaps we should get you somewhere safe, hm?" says the Witch near his ear, though she's nowhere in sight.
And then, Felix and Sylvain are winked away.
#
Felix sits beside the four-postered bed that resides in the top-most tower in the crumbling ruins of Garreg Mach.
Somewhere quiet to regain yourselves, the Witch said to him, eyebrows wiggling and her mouth curved into a mischievous grin.
Sylvain rests underneath the covers, more color to his skin. And Felix waits for him to wake up, his mind reeling. Sylvain is Donkey, was Donkey. Sylvain listened to him talk about his long-lost love and wasn't able to say a thing about it.
Sylvain, for some dumb fucking reason, still loves him. And it's real and it's true, because that's what broke their curses.
Felix isn't a man who's easily overwhelmed by emotion, but he feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes as he reaches out and takes Sylvain's clammy hand. He holds it, long enough for his wrist to cramp and his fingers to go numb.
"Last time that I saw you cry was when we buried Glenn."
Felix's head snaps up to find Sylvain watching him quietly. "I— well—"
"Felix," he says softly, "Look—"
"True love," blurts Felix. Sylvain pauses, his eyes wide. "The Witch, she said to me that it wasn't an act of Heroism, it was true love."
Sylvain sighs, smiling gently. "Felix, I know." He pulls his hand from Felix's grasp to grab his wrist instead. Sylvain tugs Felix closer to him until he's half hanging over him, one knee pressed to the mattress. "We've always been a bit of a mess. Fitting it'd take being cursed to sort it all out."
"Ingrid will never let it go."
Sylvain watches him for a long moment, his other hand reaching up to cup his face. "Meandering Swordsman, Puss-in-Boots. What a variety of terrifying titles you've held over the years."
"Better than Donkey."
"It'll make for a good pet name."
Felix will chew off his own hand before he calls Sylvain that ever again.
"Felix, come home with me. Or we can stay here. I don't— look, I don't care where we go, just don't leave my side."
Felix does something that he never fucking does— he smiles, wide and genuine, covering the entirety of his face. He's exhausted, bone-weary, and incredibly sleep-deprived, but he looks at Sylvain with nothing but peace.
"I love you," he says, "Goddess, I—"
"Are you going to finally kiss me, or what?"
Felix does. He swoops down and takes Sylvain by the mouth. His fingers curl around his cheeks as he holds himself above him.
And yes, it's exactly the kind of kiss that makes people believe in love again.